“It’s not you. It’s your father. From what you’ve told me, there’s a chance-a small one, to be sure-that he’s still alive. If he is, I can help you find him. I can help you bring him home.”
His words, uttered so quietly, so confidently, made Willy fall still. Guy could tell she was trying to read his face, trying to figure out what he wasn’t telling her. And he wasn’t telling her a lot.
“What do you get out of this?” she asked.
“You mean besides the pleasure of your company?”
“You said there was money involved. Since I’m not paying you, I assume someone else is. The Ariel Group? Are they offering you more than just expenses?”
“Move to the head of the class.”
“How much?”
“For an honest to God live one? Two million.”
“Two million dollars?”
He squeezed her hand, hard. “Keep it down, will you? This isn’t exactly public information.”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You’re serious? Two million?”
“That’s their offer. Now you think about my offer. Work with me, and we could both come out ahead. You’d get your father back. I’d pick up a nice little retirement fund. A win-win situation.” He grinned, knowing he had her now. She’d be stupid to refuse. And Willy Maitland was definitely not stupid. “I think you’ll agree,” he said. “It’s a match made in heaven.”
“Or hell,” she muttered darkly. She sat back and gave him a look of pure cast iron. “You’re nothing but a bounty hunter.”
“If that’s what you want to call me.”
“I could call you quite a few things. None of them flattering.”
“Before you start calling me names, maybe you should think about your options. Which happen to be pretty limited. The way I see it, you can go it alone, which so far hasn’t gotten you a helluva lot of mileage. Or-” he leaned forward and beamed her his most convincing smile “-you could work with me.”
Her mouth tightened. “I don’t work with mercenaries.”
“What’ve you got against mercenaries?”
“Just a minor matter-principle.”
“It’s the money that bothers you, isn’t it? The fact that I’m doing it for cash and not out of the goodness of my heart.”
“This isn’t some big-game hunt! We’re talking about men. Men whose families have wiped out their savings to pay worthless little Rambos like you! I know those families. Some of them are still hanging in, twisting around on that one shred of hope. And you know as well as I do that those soldiers aren’t sitting around in some POW camp, waiting to be rescued. They’re dead.”
“You think your old man’s alive.”
“He’s a different story.”
“Right. And every one of those five hundred other MIAs could be another ‘different story.’”
“I happen to have evidence!”
“But you don’t have the smarts it takes to find him.” Guy leaned forward, his gaze hard on hers. In the last light of sunset, her face seemed alight with fire, her cheeks glowing a beautiful dusky red. “If he’s alive, you can’t afford to screw up this chance. And you may get only one chance to find him. Because I’ll tell you now, the Vietnamese won’t let you back in the country for another deluxe tour. Admit it, Willy. You need me.”
“No,” she shot back. “You need me. Without my help, how are you going to cash in on your ‘live one’?”
“How’re you going to find him?”
She was the one leaning forward now, so close, he almost pulled back in surprise. “Don’t underestimate me, sleazeball,” she muttered.
“And don’t overestimate yourself, Junior. It’s not easy finding answers in this country. No one, nothing’s ever what it seems here. A flicker in the eye, a break in the voice can mean all the difference in the world. You need a partner. And, hey, I’m not unreasonable. I’ll even think about splitting the reward with you. Say, ten percent. That’s money you never expected, just to let me-”
“I don’t give a damn about the money!” She rose sharply to her feet. “Go get rich off someone else’s old man.” She spun around and walked away.
“Won’t you even think about it?” he yelled.
She just kept marching away across the rooftop garden, oblivious to the curious glances aimed her way.
“Take it from me, Willy! You need me!”
A trio of Russian tourists, their faces ruddy from a few rounds of vodka, glanced up as she passed. One of the men raised his glass in a drunken salute. “Maybe you like Russian man better?” he shouted.
She didn’t even break her stride. But as she walked away, every guest on that rooftop heard her answer, which came floating back with disarming sweetness over her shoulder. “Go to hellski.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GUY WATCHED HER storm away, her chambray skirt snapping smartly about those fabulous legs. Annoyed as he was, he couldn’t help laughing when he heard that comeback to the Russian.
Go to hellski. He laughed harder. He was still laughing as he wandered over to the bar and called for another Heineken. The beer was so cold, it made his teeth ache.
“For a fellow who’s just gotten the royal heave-ho,” said a voice, obviously British, “you seem to be in high spirits.”
Guy glanced at the portly gentleman hunched next to him at the bar. With those two tufts of hair on his bald head, he looked like a horned owl. China blue eyes twinkled beneath shaggy eyebrows.
Guy shrugged. “Win some, lose some.”
“Sensible attitude. Considering the state of womanhood these days.” The man hoisted a glass of Scotch to his lips. “But then, I could have predicted she’d be a no go.”
“Sounds like an expert talking.”
“No, I sat behind her on the plane. Listened to some oily Frenchman ooze his entire repertoire all over her. Smashing lines, I have to say, but she didn’t fall for it.” He squinted at Guy. “Weren’t you on that flight out of Bangkok?”
Guy nodded. He didn’t remember the man, but then, he’d spent the entire flight white-knuckling his armrest and gulping down whiskey. Airplanes did that to him. Even nice big 747s with nice French stewardesses. It never failed to astonish him that the wings didn’t fall off.
At the other end of the garden, the trio of Russians had started to sing. Not, unfortunately, in the same key. Maybe not even the same song. It was hard to tell.
“Never would’ve guessed it,” the Englishman said, glancing over at the Russians. “I still remember the Yanks drinking at that very table. Never would’ve guessed there’d be Russians sitting there one day.”
“When were you here?”
“Sixty-eight to ’75.” He held out a pudgy hand in greeting. “Dodge Hamilton, London Post.”
“Guy Barnard. Ex-draftee.” He shook the man’s hand. “Reporter, huh? You here on a story?”
“I was.” Hamilton looked mournfully at his Scotch. “But it’s fallen through.”
“What has? Your interviews?”
“No, the concept. I called it a sentimental journey. Visit to old friends in Saigon. Or, rather, to one friend in particular.” He took a swallow of Scotch. “But she’s gone.”
“Oh. A woman.”
“That’s right, a woman. Half the human race, but they might as well be from Mars for all I understand the sex.” He slapped down the glass and motioned for another refill. The bartender resignedly shoved the whole bottle of Scotch over to Hamilton. “See, the story I had in mind was the search for a lost love. You know, the sort of copy that sells papers. My editor went wild about it.” He poured the Scotch, recklessly filling the glass to the brim. “Ha! Lost love! I stopped by her old house today, over on Rue Catinat. Or what used to be Rue Catinat. Found her brother still living there. But it seems my old love ran away with some new love. A sergeant. From Memphis, no less.”
Guy shook his head in sympathy. “A woman has a right to change her mind.”